Inside I dump the boxes onto the wood floor and open them up. The first has the remains of an actual pizza in it. The few slices we didn’t eat are covered in pepperoni and sausage—in a pinch that might effectively distract the dogs.

The second contains the gun, wrapped in paper towels; baggies to put over my feet; bleach-soaked wipes; and disposable gloves.

The third pizza box has my getting-out-of-the-building outfit. A suit jacket and pants, glasses, and a soft leather briefcase. I change clothes quickly and then gear up.

As I tie the plastic over my feet, I glance around the room. The walls are a sea blue, hung with framed photographs of Bethenny in various tropical settings. She smiles at me, cocktail in hand, from a hundred pictures, reflected a thousandfold in the mirrors on her closet doors. I can’t help seeing myself too, dirty hair hanging in my face. I look like I haven’t slept in weeks.

The dogs stop whining and start barking. Over and over, a chorus of sound.

Dresses are strewn around the opening of her closet in frothy, glittering profusion, and shoes are scattered all over the room. On top of a white dresser, a tangle of gold chains droops into a drawer overstuffed with satiny bras.

I touch nothing except for the mattress. Lifting up one end, I get ready to shove my gun on top of the box spring.

Another gun’s already there.

I stare at the large silver revolver. It makes the pistol in my hand look dainty.

I am so thrown that I momentarily have no idea what to do. She already has a gun under her mattress.

I start to laugh, the hysteria bubbling up out of my throat. All of a sudden it overwhelms me. I can’t help it. I am crouched down in front of the bed, sucking in deep breaths, tears starting to run out of my eyes, I am laughing so hard. I’m laughing so hard that I am making no sound at all.

It feels as helpless as blowback, as helpless as grief.

Finally I get it together enough to put the Smith & Wesson between the mattress and box spring near the foot of the bed. I figure no one grabs for a gun there, and no one lifts up their mattress really high when they’re grabbing for a different gun.

Then I break down the pizza boxes, shoving them into the briefcase along with the jeans and jacket I was wearing when I came in. I dump the extra pizza, paper towels, and wipes in too. I change my gloves. Then I run a bleach-soaked wipe over the floor to get rid of any crumbs, grease, or hairs. I toe it along to the door just to be safe.

Outside the room the poodles’ barking has reached a fever pitch. I tuck the wipe into my pocket.

I hear one of the dogs thump against the knob, and suddenly, horribly, it turns. One of them must have caught it with a paw. A moment later they rush in, barking furiously. I barely jump up onto the bed in time to avoid getting bitten.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking. They’re poodles, right? But these things aren’t little fuzzy toy poodles. They’re standard poodles, huge and snapping at me, white teeth bared and a growl rumbling up their throats when I make a move toward the edge of the mattress. I look at the chandelier hanging above me and contemplate trying to swing from it.

“Hey,” I hear a voice call. “Beth? How many times do I got to tell you to keep those dogs of yours quiet?”

Oh, come on. This cannot be happening.

Of course, it wouldn’t be happening if I’d thought to lock the apartment door after I picked the lock. Cons are all in the details. They’re about the little things that you either remember or you don’t.

“If you don’t shut them up, I’m gonna call the police,” the guy yells. “This time I mean it—Hey, what the—”

He stands in the doorway, looking at me, astonishment silencing him. In a moment he’s going to yell. In a moment he’s going to rush into his apartment and dial 911.

“Oh, thank God,” I say, trying to give him my most grateful look. I clear my throat. “We got a report—one of the neighbors complained. I had an appointment with—”

“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in Bethenny’s apartment?” The neighbor is a guy, balding and probably in his early forties. He’s sporting a pretty heavy beard and mustache. His worn T-shirt has the faded logo of a construction company.

“The apartment manager sent me to evaluate the situation with these dogs,” I shout over the din of barking. “The door was open, and I thought that perhaps Ms. Thomas was in. She’s been avoiding my calls, but I finally got her to agree to a meeting. I didn’t expect them to attack.”

“Yeah,” the guy shouts. “They’re high strung. And spoiled all to hell. If you want to get down from there, you better give them a treat or something.”

“I don’t have a treat.” I decide I better move, if I want to be convincing. I jump down from the bed, grab my briefcase, and run for the neighbor. I feel teeth close on my leg.

“Augh,” I yell, nearly falling.

“You stay,” the neighbor shouts at the poodles, which miraculously seems to make them pause long enough for us to slam the bedroom door.

I lean down and pull up the hem of my pants. My left ankle is bleeding sluggishly, soaking my sock. I have only a couple of minutes before my blood spills over the plastic covering my feet and hits the floor.

“This is ridiculous!” I say. “She told me this was the only time that she could meet, even thought it was extremely inconvenient for me. And she’s not even here—”

The guy looks back toward the door of the apartment. “Do you want a bandage or something?”

I shake my head. “I’m going immediately to a hospital so that the wound can be photographed and entered into evidence. It’s extremely important right now that Ms. Thomas not know the building is trying to put together a case against her. Can I rely on your discretion?”

“Are you trying to get Bethenny kicked out?” he asks. I adjust my answer when I see his expression.

“Our first step is going to be suggesting that Ms. Thomas enroll her dogs in intensive obedience classes. If that doesn’t work, we may have to ask her to place them elsewhere.”

“I’m tired of all their noise,” he says. “I’m not going to say anything to her, so long as you’re not trying to mess with her lease.”

“Thank you.” I glance down at the floor, but I don’t see any blood. Good. I head for the hallway.

“Aren’t you kind of young to work for the management?” the neighbor says, but he seems more amused than suspicious.

I push the glasses up the bridge of my nose the way Sam does. “Everyone says that. Lucky me, I’ve got a baby face.”

I limp through the lobby. The change in the way I walk probably helps my disguise—the desk guy barely looks up. I walk out the door, going over all the things I could have done wrong. I make my way stiffly down to the street and then over to the supermarket parking lot, where the hearse is idling.

Lila hops out of one side and comes running toward me. The wig’s gone, bruise makeup is smeared across her nose, and she’s laughing.

“Did you see our performance? I think you missed the part where we convinced Larry that he’d accidentally punched me. He wound up begging us not to press charges.” She throws her arms around my neck, and all of a sudden her legs are around my waist and I’m holding her up.

I spin around to hear her giggling shriek, ignoring the pain in my ankle. Sam is getting out of the car, grinning too.

“She’s such a con artist,” he says. “Better than you, I think.”

“Don’t sass me,” I say. I stop spinning, walking over to Sam’s car and setting her down so she’s sitting on the hood. “I know she’s better.”

Lila grins and doesn’t unlock her legs from my waist. Instead she pulls me toward her for a kiss that tastes of greasepaint and regret.

Sam rolls his eyes. “How about we hit a diner? Larry paid us fifty bucks to go away.”

“Sure,” I say. “Absolutely.”

I know I will never be this happy again.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

MONDAY MORNING I pull into the parking lot of the FBI office in my shiny mob-bought Benz. I feel pretty good with the built-in GPS reassuring me that I’ve arrived at my destination, the leather seats heating my ass, and the surround-sound speakers blasting music from my iPod loudly enough that I can feel it in my bones.

I get out, throw my backpack over my shoulder, hit the button so that the alarm sets, and walk into the building.

Agent Jones and Agent Hunt are waiting for me inside the lobby. I follow them into the elevator.

“Nice car,” Agent Hunt says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I like it.”

Agent Jones snorts. “Let’s go upstairs, kid, and see what you’ve got to say. You better have something this time.”

We get to the fourth floor, and they march me into a different room. No mirror this time. I’m sure it’s bugged, though. Simple furniture. Table, metal chairs. The kind of room someone could lock you in for a long time.

“I want immunity,” I tell them, sitting down at the table. “For any and all past crimes.”

“Sure,” Agent Jones says. “Look, here’s my verbal agreement. You’re just a kid, Cassel. We’re not interested in busting you for whatever little—”

“No,” I say. “I want it in writing.”

Agent Hunt clears his throat. “We can do that. Not a problem. Whatever makes you feel the most comfortable. Give us a little while and we’ll get something put together for you. Whatever you say to us, we can guarantee that no prosecutor will ever file charges against you. You’ll have your deal. We want you on board.”

I reach into my backpack and take out three copies of a contract.

“What’s this?” Agent Jones says. He doesn’t sound happy.

I swallow. My fingers dampen the paper with sweat. I hope they don’t notice. “These are my terms. And, unlike the deal you made with my brother, I need this to be authorized by an attorney in the Justice Department.”

The two agents exchange a look. “Philip was a special case,” Agent Hunt says. “He had some information we needed. If you’re proposing a trade, you have to give us something.”

“I’m a special case too. Philip told you—or at least he strongly implied—that he knew the identity of a transformation worker, right? So do I. But I’m not a sucker like him, okay? I don’t want a bunch of empty promises. I want this contract signed by an attorney from the Justice Department. Not by you two jokers. Then I fax it to my lawyer. When I get her okay, I’ll tell you everything.”

Agent Hunt looks a little stunned. I don’t know if they guessed the killer was a transformation worker or not, but I can’t take chances. Besides, I have only a few cards to play.

“And if we can’t do that?” Agent Jones asks. He doesn’t seem so friendly right at the moment.

I shrug my shoulders. “I guess neither of us gets what we want.”

“We could pick up your mother. You think we don’t know what she’s been up to?” Agent Hunt says.

“I don’t know what she’s been up to,” I say, keeping my voice as mild as I can. “But if she’s done something wrong, then I guess she’s going to have to pay for it.”

Agent Jones leans in across the table. “You’re a death worker, right, kid? You strongly implied that the last time you were here. Maybe something went wrong before you knew how to control your work? It happens, but you think we aren’t going to find out about a missing kid somewhere in your past? Then it’s going to be too late for deals.”

It’s going to be too late for deals much sooner than that, I think.

I wonder what it would be like working for the Brennan family. I wonder what it’s like to kill someone when you have to remember it.

“Look,” I say, “I have outlined my conditions in the document in front of you. In exchange for immunity I will give you the full name and location of the transformation worker and proof of one or more crimes committed by that person.”

“It’s Lila Zacharov, isn’t it?” Agent Hunt says. “We already know that. Not much of a secret you’ve got there. She disappears, and her father suddenly gets a new assassin.”

I touch the top of the paper, tracing the words, willing myself not to react. Finally I look up at them both. “Every minute you spend talking to me is a minute you’re not talking to the Justice Department. And in a couple of minutes I am going to get up and walk out of here and take my offer with me.”

“What if we don’t let that happen?” Agent Hunt says.

“Unless you plan on bringing in a memory worker to actually go through my brain like it’s a deck of cards, you can’t force me into a deal—and, let’s face it, if you were going to do that, you would have already done it. I guess you could physically keep me here, but you can’t keep me interested.”

“You better really have the goods,” Agent Jones says, standing up. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll make the call.

“They leave me alone in the room. I figure I’m going to be there a while. I brought my homework.

* * *

When they bring me back the first contract, I call my lawyer. Unfortunately, she doesn’t know she’s my lawyer quite yet.

“Hello?” Mrs. Wasserman says.

“Hi, it’s Cassel,” I say, letting all the fear I actually feel creep into my voice. The agents have left me alone in the room, but I have no doubt that they are recording everything I say. “Remember when you told me I should ask you if I needed anything?”